


The Adoption

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Infiltrate Interludes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Angst, Child Abandonment, Families of Choice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's talking but John can't hear her, instead watching her mouth move like he'd done so many years ago, when a bomb had gone off too close to him and he'd lost his hearing for a day. She is telling him that their temporary foster care for Kaden has been terminated due to falsified records, that she has come for both children, and John's heart stops, it stops in his chest because <i>she's taking Lucy too. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adoption

**Author's Note:**

> This is another of the stories that Skip and I wrote together that we absolutely adore. It takes place in the month after [(Second) Chances](http://archiveofourown.org/works/348994). Please note that this story references child abandonment.

John's ears are filled with rushing water.

It is the swimming pool again all over again, staring at Sherlock as the earth rained fire down on them from above and they both steadily drowned. It is the Afghani standing over him with the pistol in his hand, a kid, a bloody _kid_ , with terror in his dark brown eyes. It is being wrist-deep in a young sergeant knowing there's nothing he could do until the boy’s heart gave out in his hand.

It is the woman standing across from him, telling him she is taking Kaden.

His arms tighten around the baby, reflexive, and Kaden mews softly with discontent. He's in his stocking-feet, dinner in the oven, bills on the table. The bassinet and a half-empty bottle of formula are on the table.

"What?" he asks softly, because he hadn't heard right, surely he hadn't --

"Mr. Watson, my name is Melissa Cartwright, I'm from the adoption centre," the woman says. Behind the woman is Andrew, staring at him with bright, hot fear.

She's talking but John can't hear her, instead watching her mouth move like he'd done so many years ago, when a bomb had gone off too close to him and he'd lost his hearing for a day. She is telling him that their temporary foster care for Kaden has been terminated due to falsified records, that she has come for both children, and John's heart stops, it stops in his chest because _she's taking Lucy too._

The woman makes an aborted movement to come near him until she sees something in his face. She takes a step back. "We will call the authorities if necessary, Mr. Watson," the woman says quietly.

"You're not taking my children away from me," he replies, calm to the center of himself.

"Mr. Watson--"

He turns his eyes away from her and to Andrew, standing white as a sheet in the doorway. "Why don't you fetch me my phone, so I can call Papa? Sherlock went to get Lucy," John explains to the woman, as Andrew goes to get it. "She's at ballet class. Until he gets here, Mrs. Cartwright, you are welcome to sit down and have a cup of tea while I finish dinner."

Mrs. Cartwright looks distinctly uncomfortable, but she sits anyway. John can have that effect on people.

Andrew returns in that moment and hands him his phone, and when he does John realizes his son's hands are like ice. He tugs him in close, presses a kiss to his temple. "It's alright."

For all his son is brilliant he's still only ten years old, and John looks down at him to see his eyes squeezed shut, chin trembling fiercely. "Dad--"

"It's alright," he says again. "Not to worry. Why don't you get Mrs. Cartwright some tea, then?"

His son doesn't want to, John can tell, but he's far too good of a lad to argue. John doesn't step out of the kitchen to make his call. "Sherlock?"

"John?" his husband asks; John can hear London traffic behind him. "I've just picked up Lucy, we'll--"

"There's a woman here, a Mrs. Cartwright. She says she's from the adoption centre, and she's here for Lucy and Kaden."

There is a silence on the other end, punctuated only by the sound of someone beeping their horn, of Sherlock's careful breathing. "Don't let her take him."

"Sherlock--"

"Do _not_. Let her _take him_ ," Sherlock snarls down the line. "I'll be home in fifteen minutes -- less."

He hears Lucy make a shrill sound of complaint, then -- "Daddy, Papa took my phone! I was talking to Regina!"

 

.

Sherlock hangs up the phone and feels the world stretch very far away very quickly. It's the sign his brain has gone into overdrive, pulling back to examine one hundred different possible scenarios at the same time. He has to fix this, _this cannot be allowed to happen._

He turns his phone to text, wanting this one time to call instead, to start shouting orders until the situation is resolved to his satisfaction. That would mean alerting Lucy to the situation though, and there's no need to worry her.

_Issue with kids' adoptions, error  
on your part, fix it NOW. _

_SH_

"What's going on?" Lucy asks, curious but not afraid, not yet. She's watching him, far too aware for her age, but that is his fault, that is his deliberate doing, his training. She doesn't miss a thing; for once he wishes she would.

"I'm handling it," he tells her, and she relaxes, momentarily pacified. Sherlock mentally urges the cab to go faster.

They get to the flat in eleven minutes and Lucy darts up the stairs before Sherlock can stop her, yelling for John. "Lucy, wait!" He throws a few bills at the cabbie and strides off after her, but it's too late.

"What do you mean?" she's asking as he steps into the room. She's frozen to the spot, wide eyes glancing between John and the worker, looking like she genuinely cannot comprehend what she's being told, like she is being spoken to in an alien tongue. John is staring at him with a look Sherlock hasn't seen in eight years, since he rose from the grave and stood as a ghost in his brother's home. He could have lived the rest of his life without seeing that look again, ever. He has to bite his cheek to keep from saying something that would not only get his children removed but him a restraining order or possibly time in a holding cell.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he snatches it out. 

_Situation is being handled.  
Await further instructions. _

_MH_

Sherlock clenches his fist around the phone but otherwise keeps his voice calm. "Andrew, Lucy, go see Mrs. Hudson."

Both kids look up at him, twin expressions of panic on their face. Andrew protests, "But--"

"Go," John says, and Andrew starts moving. Lucy is frozen in place, the same panic response she's had since they found her. Sherlock resists the urge to pick her up and hide her away, and instead Andrew hurries over, tugs her by the arm. "C'mon." She shivers back into motion and the pair of them take off down the stairs to alert their landlady to the unfolding drama.

Mrs. Cartwright doesn't protest their departures, instead looking almost relieved as she turns to face Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, as I've told Mr. Watson, there is absolutely no paperwork for either of you -- no assessments, no medical records, no interview transcriptions. In fact the only documentation we do have is a copy of Lucille's adoption decree. There isn't a judge in the country would sign on off on that without seeing something, without speaking to a worker first, and until this matter is resolved we simply can't let any non-biological children stay here."

He narrows his eyes at her. "So a clerical error on your end means our children need to be separated and traumatized?"

"This is not an error," she corrects sharply, "this is subterfuge -- I don't know to what end yet, but until we find out it's not legal for them to be here."

She is saved a truly scathing response by Sherlock's phone ringing. He glances at the display and picks up.

" _The matter with Lucille is five minutes from resolution, but you will have to let them take Kaden,_ " Mycroft tells him.

"No," Sherlock says simply, deceptively calm.

Mycroft reads the response correctly, because his answer is cautious and unbearably concerned. " _You_ will _get him back_."

"No." 

John is looking at him, somehow successfully corralling the panic that lurks behind his eyes, his arms around the baby secure. He looks at Sherlock and Sherlock feels the bile-inducing sense of impotence, of _failure._

" _Do not damage your case in any way, Sherlock,_ " Mycroft pushes ruthlessly. " _Cooperate, for now._ I will fix this." 

Sherlock hasn't heard him sound like this since he was eight, hiding in his brother's room night after night from the threat of more invaders, more gunshots. He doesn't know if it makes him feel better or worse.

There is a slam of the front door that surprises them all, and the sound of feet -- adult, male, familiar -- on the stairs, and Lestrade lets himself in. Sherlock hangs up the phone.

"Hello, sorry to interrupt. D.I. Lestrade," he says, opening his badge for Mrs. Cartwright, who looks vaguely relieved to no longer be alone in this standoff. "Lucille Piper Winthrope is staying here, under protective custody, as a witness to a violent crime."

"John," Sherlock says at the same time, because he has to be the one to do this, _he has to_ , he owes his husband at least that much. "We have to let Kaden go."

John is all too aware of his children in the doorway, and of the baby's weight in the crook of his arm. 

Kaiden's mum had thrown him out like _rubbish_ and John had saved him, had nurtured and cared for him and loved him. When he'd brought him home Sherlock had loved him too, and Lucy, and Andrew, and everyone they knew. It was impossible not to.

But the baby isn't theirs. Not really, not in the way the government cares about, and John realizes, perhaps for the first time, that he has no more claim on him than anyone else.

His children are watching him, and Mrs. Cartwright, and always, Sherlock.

He looks down at his baby. "I know," he answers in a voice that isn't his, and bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron, until he has control. "It's alright, Sherlock, I know."

John looks up at Mrs. Cartwright. "Kaden developed bronchopulmonary dysplasia while in the NICU -- his lungs weren't fully formed when he was born, and the hours he spent in the skip caused an infection to set in that has left his lungs scarred. He has an apnea monitor he uses at all times when he's not in the direct care of either myself or Sherlock, such as when he is sleeping. He is still on four medications, one of which is injected through his umbilical cord. He can only be laid down on his back, head turned at a 90 degree angle because he sometimes aspirates. He is to be kept as warm as possible, a minimum of two blankets and two pairs of socks at a time. In the apnea monitor bag pocket are the after-care instructions I wrote in case of emergency. I suppose this counts as one."

John kisses his son's forehead, his nose, his cheeks still tender after so long with the tubes taped to his face. Kaden mewls with discontent, nose scrunching up under his little hat, tiny fists in his blanket. "If anything happens to our son, Mrs. Cartwright, I'll hold you personally responsible."

He stands and his legs won't hold him -- Sherlock grabs his elbow and tugs him in close until he has strength, breathing in wool and cold London air and Kaden's baby soap, until he stops wanting to beg this woman not to take their son, and _Lucy_ , his beautiful little girl he's watched grow and mature and blossom. For a moment he's breathing as if there isn't enough air in the room, fingers fisting in the wool coat, Sherlock's heart roaring under his ear. He realizes quite suddenly that he is holding Sherlock up as much as he is being held.

"It's going to be okay," John tells him, because Sherlock looks terrified and sick and _old_ , deep in the lines around his eyes. Suddenly it is very, very important that Sherlock understand what John is saying. "Your brother will fix this."

"Mycroft is not the be-all and end-all," Sherlock replies. John call tell he was going for a fit of temper -- instead it comes out broken, hoarse.

"Your brother will make things right," John says again, squeezes the back of his neck and gives him a little shake. He believes it, wholly, as there is simply no other choice. "Until then we'll deal with this, like we've dealt with everything life has thrown at us. Only you and I know the pain and suffering we've endured, and if we can come out the other end of that whole, then we can get through this too. I need you to believe that, and to believe me."

Sherlock grimaces, wrapped up in pain and rage and loss and _fear_ , childlike and useless, ignorant of the facts. John is speaking to him, calm words that only make him feel worse -- he should be _fixing_ this, not having to be reassured, comforted. He can feel better when their son is out of the arms of a stranger.

Lestrade is trying to navigate the mess, carefully picking and choosing his words. If Sherlock could spare a thought he would thank the man. _Paperwork error on our end, didn't coordinate well with child services, already working to fill the gaps_. He says nothing about the utter impossibility Lucy's assaulter would come back, or speak to anyone else about the matter; difficult to share your story when you spend twenty-three hours a day in a five-by-eight hole.

He can tell Mrs. Cartwright isn't vindictive, though she is fiercely committed to procedure. She looks relieved to leave Lucy alone, and Sherlock sucks in a deep breath as their daughter rushes across the room from the stairs, hiding her face in John's stomach. "I'm sure we'll be in contact," Mrs. Cartwright directs to all the adults in the room, though Lestrade is the only one who acknowledges her words. "If you find any paperwork in the meantime send it to me as soon as possible."

"Where are you taking him," John asks, low and steady and unbelievably calm. Sherlock want to shake him until the person he married breaks loose.

Mrs. Cartwright looks apologetic. "A medically-approved foster home -- they have an incubator and various home care machinery already set up. He'll be well cared for."

The words hit John like a physical blow, but Sherlock finds he's the one who winces.

"Thank you for your cooperation," she says, and follows Lestrade, who says, "I'll call you," to Sherlock and rushes out the door, back to his actual job, the part that extends beyond bailing Sherlock's family out of various catastrophes. The house is silent in the wake of their departure, the flat stillness after a bomb has dropped.

Lucy is still hiding her face away, the only movement the tears that are soaking a wet spot into the middle of John's shirt. Andrew -- Sherlock realizes their son has been watching from the edges, deliberately standing off to the side, for all his brilliance confused and terrified and unsure how to be involved. Sherlock crosses the room and picks his son up, big as he is, hugs him close. What Andrew doesn't say -- a protest that he is too old for such things, for example -- is clear enough evidence of his distress.

"Sherlock," John starts.

Sherlock turns around, Andrew's arms squeezing his neck so tight it almost hurts. "I'll fix this, John, I swear I -- there are people I can -- that useless bugger at the Home Office, he owes me enough favors to help me bring home an orphanage, never mind one child, I don't know why I didn't think of it before, _stupid_ , so bloody stupid, I've got to--" He swivels to step into the sitting room and deposit his son on the sofa; Sherlock has work to do.

 

.

Sherlock flies out of the flat, feet pounding on the staircase to the basement office, and John very suddenly needs to sit down. He crosses the room on legs that don't want to hold him and slowly collapses into the sofa beside his son, tugging Lucy into his lap and Andrew against his chest.

"It'll be alright," he says, for what he feels is the twentieth time. It doesn't make his words less true, because what Lucy is too young to understand is that John will pack their family up and go on the run before letting anyone take her. He has half a mind to do so anyway, once Kaden is back with them. Sherlock has emergency funds -- his idea of 'house change', like John's swear jar on the kitchen counter, is an eclectic mix of almost two million in dollars, euros and pounds in a duffel bag under their bed.

"Daddy," Andrew says. "How can they take him like that? Isn't that against the law?"

"No," John tells him, sweeping Lucy's hair gently back from her face, damp and sticky with tears. "That woman just came and took Kaden, but only because... well, think of it this way. What if Kaden hadn't come to us, but to a different family, with a mum and dad who were drug addicts, or drinkers, or hit their children? Would that be a safe place for him to be?"

"No," Lucy answers from somewhere around his collarbone, face blotchy with tears. "But we aren't like that!"

"Of course we aren't, but the government doesn't know that. They just want little ones to be safe. This was a mistake, something about our paperwork -- your papa and I will get this taken care of and then Kaden will be back."

"That lady wanted to take me too," Lucy says, voice wobbling, and then she's crying again, and Andrew is hiding his face in John's shoulder, and John stares very hard at the ceiling until he can breathe again.

It takes an hour before Lucy cries herself into an exhausted sleep. Andrew hasn't said a single word the entire time and John takes one look at him, at his earnest face, and sees the inquisitive, handsome man he's going to be. He nudges him gently. “Up you get,” he murmurs, and when Andrew clambers up John stretches Lucy out on the sofa, covering her with the throw from the back. “Watch over your sister. Can you do that for me?"

Andrew nods, solemn, eyes enormous. He has never looked so small, his _boy_. "Yeah," he says, then clears his throat, straightens up. "Yes, I can do that."

"Papa and I are going to get this taken care of. We're just downstairs, alright?"

"Yeah," Andrew says, and John tugs him in close, hugs him tightly. "There's a lad."

 

.

Sherlock is in a cab, ten minutes away from Mycroft's office, when his phone rings. "John?"

"Where are you?"

"Working," he says, then continues, "I'm going to get him back, John, I promise."

There's a slight pause that sounds unbearably like condemnation, but then John asks, "Why didn't you tell me where you were going?"

Since Sherlock cannot frown at John himself he frowns at the traffic instead. "I did tell you."

"I didn't realize that meant you were leaving."

John's voice is off; someone else might attribute it to the stress of the last two hours, but Sherlock knows his husband well enough to spot the difference. "What's happened?"

John doesn't pretend to be ignorant. "Nothing, I just -- I don't think we should be running around right now."

Ah. Stay and guard the fort -- Sherlock should have realized that instinct would manifest. It's manifested in Sherlock too, though it looks quite different. "I'll be back as soon as I can." It's as close to a concession as he can make.

"Alright," John says, and Sherlock hangs up, feeling like he has somehow made another misstep. So many mistakes, mountains of them, it's utterly unbearable, the image of John letting the baby go scarred like a brand in his mind. John didn't actually expect very much from life -- wanted, certainly, always aimed high, but somehow didn't expect the results to show any of the effort that had gone in. It's nonsensical and drives Sherlock mental, but he's learned over the years his own particular 'idiosyncrasies' (and this is, most definitely, John's description; Sherlock sees nothing variable about them, he is very logical in his preferences) can be equally as frustrating, and therefore he has become more considerate towards them in his partner.

Kaden John had wanted and worked for and most importantly _expected_ to have. He nearly willed the child to life, and watched him grow, spent hours after his shifts in an understaffed NICU in an underfunded hospital nearly out of the city, dragging home to manage things when the children were kicking off and Sherlock could no longer deal with their unique irrationality. John thought Kaden was theirs, and Sherlock let him believe it, and now the baby was gone and his absence branded Sherlock a liar.

Sherlock finds he cannot stomach being measured by John and coming up short.

Sherlock plows through the security at 10 Downing and makes his way into Mycroft's office with almost no delay, for once a favorable side-effect of his brother's spying. Mycroft gestures to a chair but Sherlock starts to pace instead, hands behind his back. "What do I have to do to fix this?"

Mycroft points to a folder on the corner of the desk. "This is the paperwork we've completed and had independently verified by a certified child worker; the remaining pieces you and John will have to finish independently. You have an appointment with an assessor in two days at their office, the date, time, and location are listed within. Once you've finished your series of appointments you'll have a panel assessment verifying your suitability as parents and, should you be approved, after that Kaden will be returned to you."

" _Should_." Sherlock opens the folder and flicks through the pages. "How long is this going to take?"

Mycroft pauses. "At least two months; more likely three."

Sherlock looks up sharply. "Unacceptable."

"This is your only alternative, Sherlock. These things generally take a year."

Sherlock rubs a hand across his face. "With no guarantee," he says, because he can read between the lines just fine, even ones as generally inscrutable as his brother's.

Mycroft looks up at him from across the desk, old and exhausted, always far too drained by the unknowns. "There's no reason they wouldn't approve you, provided you present yourselves in the best light."

There is John's face in his mind again, his children, the frenetic racing of his son's heart against his chest. "We can't lose him twice, Mycroft."

Mycroft gives him a look that is so sharply, so completely their father Sherlock is very nearly taken aback. "I don't expect that will happen." The words are cautious, because that is what Mycroft _does_ , but the truth of the matter is written in his affect, in the low-toned forcefulness that to Sherlock sounds like concern. 

"Thank you."

Mycroft nods. "Go home to your family."

Sherlock takes the folder and goes.

 

.

It’s dark when John hears the familiar sound of Sherlock’s shoes on the pavement outside of the flat, and the sound of his key turning in the lock. He looks up from his spot on the staircase and watches Sherlock in those few, unguarded moments. To see the frustration in his body, the anger, and, as he turns to take his coat off, the defeat, breaks John’s heart. In the slump of Sherlock’s shoulders is the answer to a question John can’t make himself ask.

He must make a sound because Sherlock turns, meets his eyes from across the entryway. “John.”

“The kids... they’re asleep. I fed them, bathed them. Lucy made me take the nightlight out, so don’t let it startle you when you go up to check on them.” He stares down at his socks. There is a spot of pasta sauce on the left toe. “What did your brother say?”

"That there is -- it will take some time -- I've, we've got an appointment on Thursday, with a worker. The paperwork is done, apart from the answers for you I couldn't guess at." He's jumping all over the place, possibly the most unhelpful answer he's given in the thirteen years since he met John. “I'm still working on some adjunct assistance in hurrying things along, and I need to talk to Lestrade again once his current case has met its resolution, and the judge who signed Lucy's original decree, it's likely he'll want this straightened out as much as we do. How did they eat?"

If possible, Sherlock’s inability to form a sentence speaks more to his presence of mind than anything that’s actually coming out of his mouth. John listens to it with half an ear, looking instead at the lines pulling at Sherlock’s face, the way he can’t keep his hands still. “Sherlock,” he says, then, “They ate about as much as could be expected from them, considering. Lucy hasn’t actually stopped crying, I don’t think, but that’s more from nerves than from any real fear. She knows she isn’t going anywhere. Andrew, on the other hand, is too smart for his own good -- he keeps asking about where the baby is, what the procedure for this sort of thing entails. We’re going to have to sit down and explain it to both of them.”

He stands with a creak of bones and popping knees and crosses to Sherlock. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he reaches out to him, his arms first, then his shoulders, and then slides in against him like he’s always been able to. They fit so perfectly, embracing like this. “Sherlock,” he says again, softly.

Sherlock's arms are awkward by his sides because he's startled, he shouldn't be but he is, surprised by the calm resilience John is giving him, is sharing so unreservedly. "I'm sorry," he says hoarsely. "I shouldn't have let this happen."

“It’s alright,” John says softly, tugging Sherlock down until he can press his face into John’s shoulder, until he can smell Sherlock’s hair. It’s London, and an approaching storm, and their shampoo. “It’s alright. We’ll get this taken care of, and then the baby will be back and we won’t have any more trouble with Lucy. Just some paperwork, Sherlock.” He leans back to meet his eyes, to cup his cheek. “I love you, so much. You handled what happened today well, and I’m proud of you for not letting your temper get the best of you. We’ll follow the rules, do this by the books, and then everything will go back to normal. Okay?”

"It's not just paperwork." Sherlock says into John's jumper, into the bullet wounds underneath, scar tissue Sherlock knows as well as he knows his own hands. He makes himself pull up but cannot find it in him to pull back, his face only inches from John's. "It's evaluations, psychological assessments, approval from a panel. It's three months of waiting, of not knowing." He watches the words filter in, get slotted into place in John's mind. "We lied to get Lucy, and we lied to get Kaden, and we're lying with seventy-four percent of the paperwork I have finished downstairs, and eighty percent of what Mycroft did for us already. There is no by the book for us, not if we want to raise our kids." He puts his hands on either side of John's head, fingers suddenly itching to touch, to hold him close. "That's why I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thought this would be so simple. I'm sorry we'll go through this with a better than likely chance it's not going to work, and we'll lose them anyway. Mostly I'm sorry I promised you I'd fix it, because I don't know if I can."

“They’re not taking our kids from us,” John says softly, but with total and complete confidence. “It isn’t going to happen, Sherlock. Lucy is our daughter, and has been for eight years. They aren’t going to take her from us because she’s _ours_. With Kaden it’ll be a bit harder, but I think... I hope that they’ll leave him with us. We’re good people, we’re fiscally responsible, we have the space, I’m a bloody doctor and you’re a bloody earl. Our children are titled, and if we want we could give all of this up and, I don’t know, go live in the country or something. They’re not going to take him from us, not when they see our home, and how happy our kids are.” He looks up at Sherlock, tucks a curl behind his ear. “And if they try, we’ll leave and never come back. I’m trying not to let it get to that point, though, as it's a bit not good, and I’d miss Mrs. Hudson terribly, so let’s try everything else first, yeah?”

"You're incredible," Sherlock says, and John quirks his mouth up like he does whenever he thinks Sherlock is being especially absurd. "I have faith in you, John Watson, and you've never let me down when it mattered. You'll find you have only yourself for company in that club." He still sees very little chance of success, but there have been worse odds before, and yes, he does thrive on the challenge. He would have remembered as much but his family has never been a part of that game, not from the moment John walked out wearing a bomb, not a single moment since. He doesn't enjoy the process when the stakes are that high, but in this case that just means he has another incentive to win.

He kisses John; John kisses him back.

 

.

Sherlock, as John had half expected, checks on the children as soon as they’re upstairs. They’re both asleep, even Lucy, which John _hadn’t_ expected, not with the disco-tech that her bedroom has become. Sherlock had removed the music box from the nightlight years ago, out of sheer necessity (it was that or kick it across the road where it could twinkle and sing it’s horrific Children of the Corn music to its mechanical heart’s content), but the round globe still spun, slowly, a shower of sheep blue and pink and yellow on her walls.

Andrew, too, is deeply asleep, curled around Ribbit. John had pulled his glasses from his nose before going down to wait for Sherlock, and he looks innocent and young under his soft, blue duvet. John brushes his fingers through his hair, untangling the messy curls, and kisses his temple gently.

The crib stands empty in their bedroom. John forces himself to look at it, empty of blankets and stuffed animals and the tiny waving arms, the soft mewling of his baby. Sherlock had made the carousel himself for Andrew, years ago, and from it hung moons and stars and a tiny stuffed telescope. When wound it played Brahm’s Lullaby, Sherlock’s own recording.

John has a quick wash, brushing his teeth and washing his face before curling into bed. He can hear Sherlock upstairs checking windows, then downstairs checking doors. The kitchen to look in at the cooker and make sure it had been turned off. Shoes toed off in the hall -- such a terrible habit -- and then he slips into the loo for his own wash. John listens to the shower, the sound of Sherlock brushing his teeth, the porcelain tap of the toilet seat opening, then closing with a flush.

When Sherlock climbs into bed behind him he smells of toothpaste and soap, the fabric softener they use. John catches his hand as Sherlock loops his arm over John’s waist and brings him close, like always.

Sherlock falls asleep, eventually -- exhausted by the day, by the emotional turmoil. John listens to him as he slips slowly, fitfully into sleep, deeper and deeper until he was making those soft snuffling sounds, his not-quite-snores. The crib stands across from them, at the foot of their bed where they could hear the baby.

There is no baby now. There might never be a baby again.

No one had wanted Kaden. The night John had found him in that skip the A&E doctor had taken one look at him, wrapped in John’s coat and covered with placental fluid, and told him the child wouldn’t make it through the night. And when he had, the head of emergency pediatric care had told him there was no hope -- the child was too young, lungs unformed, and it was a miracle he’d survived even one day. That man had told John the baby wouldn’t make it through another night, that he would drown in his own fluids.

But he hadn’t. And he hadn’t died the next night, or the next, or the next day or week or month. And John hadn’t said a word about it, not to anyone, not even Sherlock. He’d massaged the baby’s chest when he stopped breathing periodically, and nurtured him and held him to let him feel the warmth of another human being. And so this continued, for six more weeks, until John hadn’t had a choice but to tell Sherlock, to explain what he’d been doing -- that there had, indeed, been someone else.

No one had been there to love Kaden, to touch him and hold him, except John. And John had willingly put his son in the arms of a stranger and let her walk out of the flat with him.

He’s vomiting before he can untangle himself from the bedsheets. He crashes against the nightstand, the lamp falling shattering in his wake, and falls to the floor in front of the toilet, vomiting until he’s gagging, shaking with the need to breathe, _he can’t breathe._

Sherlock doesn't follow John's panicked stumbling to the bathroom, not at first. John is about as fond of having an audience to his emotional weaknesses as Sherlock, even if it _is_ Sherlock. So instead he stays in the bedroom - picks up the lamp shards, goes to the kitchen and comes back to clean up the vomit. He goes upstairs to check on the children, both of whom are still sleeping soundly, and goes back downstairs to snag a shirt from the wardrobe. He gets all this done, and then waits another five minutes, and it's only then he goes in search of his husband.

John is curled around the toilet, head buried in his good arm. He's hyperventilating, and shivering, and the lower part of his face is wet. Sherlock gets a washcloth and wets it, and then sits on the floor next to John, who hasn't acknowledged his presence and is probably not even aware of it yet.

Sherlock reaches out to John carefully, not wanting to startle him. “John.” 

John doesn't move.

Sherlock takes John's free hand, the one lying listless in his lap, and tugs him up. "Come on," he says quietly. "You've stained your shirt."

John looks up -- Sherlock is beside him, eyes heavy and empty under his dark hair. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Sherlock makes a sound and gently pulls John’s shirt up over his head. John catches his wrists before he’s brought them back down. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he says again. “Gun in my hand, mystery to solve, bad guys to chase down. I can do that. But this isn’t... there’s no enemy to fight, it’s just trying to convince people we’re model parents. Sherlock, we _aren’t_ \-- our kids eat too much junk food, Andrew’s addicted to that handheld thing he plays his Mario on, Lucy back-talks us both, and somehow, in every conversation, they get completely around us. And you and I... half the time we’re running after some idiot who stole someone’s diamond necklace or something, or worse, _murdered_ someone.”

He closes his eyes as Sherlock gently cleans his face. “Sherlock,” he croaks, hands like ice, “they want to take Lucy.”

"I don't give a good damn what they want," Sherlock says sharply. "They can't have her." The very idea is anathema -- Lucy's been theirs for _years_. She's no longer the clingy three year old they found hiding in the back of a cupboard; she's a sharp, vibrant, thoroughly _independent_ ten year old, who feels protected enough now to run off and go exploring at the slightest bloody opportunity. Sherlock will be dead before he lets someone take that away from her.

Lucy can make John laugh like no one else, is the only one who can drag Andrew out of his head to go run outside (even if it is only to chase her and whatever she’s stolen off him down), has done Sherlock the enormous favor of charming teachers and police officers and the occasional potential witnesses. She has a faith in Sherlock he doesn't understand, can't dismiss, and absolutely refuses to lose.

They're not going to live like this, wondering, waiting. Sherlock's career is centered around getting the answers he wants -- there's no chance this time, when it actually matters, he'll let the results be anything different. "Come on, up, hurry up," he tells John, who is still looking despairing, drained, and utterly defeated. Sherlock puts the washcloth down, hands him the shirt. "You're right, John. This isn't something we can sit around and expect to win." He stands up and holds a hand out. "We have work to do."

John's expression shifts from one emotion to the next, minute changes Sherlock has cataloged a thousand times each, could recite the meanings of in his sleep. When John settles on determined, challenged, and takes Sherlock's hand, Sherlock finds he has it in him to smile.

 

.

When the kids wake they find their parents crumpled together on the office sofa, surrounded by papers and passports and housing certificates and piles of research, with no less than seven full tea cups perched perilously around the room. 

They find their parents like this more often than not -- when one or the both of them aren't at the MET, or 10 Downing Street, or various care centres, asking seemingly endless questions -- as a week turns to two turns to five and seven and ten, until three months and five days have passed, every single one of them simultaneously too slow and too fast. Someone is always around for dinner -- even if they're not eating it -- and the children are always checked on at night, the sound of footsteps on the stairs reassuring even in their sleep. And if Sherlock and John weren't actually getting any rest themselves neither of them were complaining -- it's not as though they could sleep in the bedroom anyway, staring at an empty crib they couldn't find the time to move.

It's come to this, ninety-seven days of work boiled down to twenty-five minutes of silence in a drafty office corridor. "John, Sherlock, the panel's come back," Cartwright says, waving them in. Sherlock could admit she'd been useful, once her suspicions about their motivations for adopting had been proven unfounded. She ushers them back into the office with a commiserating smile, and they sit in their assigned seats at the round table, the absurd attempt to pretend this is some kind of group decision.

"Thank you for waiting," Dr. Pritchard says, speaking for the panel. "We've come to a consensus." He looks around, and waits for the nods of agreement from the other six members. John has one hand in a tight fist against his thigh, and the other on Sherlock's knee, gripping like his life depends on it. Sherlock tries not to consider how much or little that expression in this case may be an exaggeration. "We are very happy to approve you as adoptive parents for Lucille Piper Winthrope."

John lets out a low breath, and his hand gets tighter. They've not seen their son in more than three months.

"In regards to your second application, we've also come to a consensus." He again looks around, and Sherlock is about to snarl out his opinion of this pomp and circumstance, but John's brutal fingernails in his kneecap keep him silent. "We are very happy to approve you as adoptive parents for Baby Boy K."


End file.
